


I suppose I shall have to keep you warm then

by vivilove



Series: Dialogue/Tumblr Prompts [8]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attraction, But Sansa is still in the Vale when they reunite, F/M, His parentage is already known, Jon Snow is King in the North, King Jon and Alayne, Secret Identity, Teasing, idk how it just is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-11-24 12:37:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20907791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove
Summary: Hiding in the Vale as Alayne Stone, Sansa's sure Jon Snow, the new King in the North, will recognize her once he sees her.  But that's not what happens...





	I suppose I shall have to keep you warm then

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melissa_Alexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melissa_Alexander/gifts).

> For Melissa's (@kitten1618x) dialogue prompt on Tumblr :)

_“Jon would never harm me.”_

_“How can you know that, sweetling? Years have passed since you last saw one another. You’re not the girl you were when you left Winterfell no more than he is the boy you knew…and I wasn’t aware you were ever that close to begin with.”_

Those final words had stung though she’d been forced to acknowledge the truth of them. They had never been all that close though she’d thought of him fondly on the rare occasions she’d thought of Jon Snow at all after they’d parted.

He’s certainly no longer the boy she’d grown up with. Once her bastard half-brother, she’s learned he is her cousin, the son of her aunt by Rhaegar Targaryen. And he’s not a man of the Nights Watch anymore. He’s a king now, seeking men and aid from the Vale for some coming war.

Of course, she’s no longer the girl he’d known exactly. Sansa Stark is wanted for the murder of another king. She’s currently missing and presumed dead by many. Alayne Stone is the bastard daughter of Lord Baelish who’s hosting the newly chosen King in the North in the Vale for a moon.

Littlefinger was not pleased to learn of Jon’s ascendancy. It had ruined some scheme of his but he’s already thinking of a new plan, ways he can use this to work to his advantage…and ways he can use her, she knows.

_“Keep your distance until I say otherwise,”_ he’s told her.

But she can’t. She’s eager to see him, longing for a familiar face from the past and hoping he might help her return home again.

In the hall when the king and his small retinue arrives, her tummy’s twisted in knots and she wrings her hands so sure that at any moment their eyes will meet and he’ll recognize her.

She can almost picture it like something out of a story of the true knight finding the lost maiden. Things will grow hushed and she’ll smile at him with the hope that’s never quite left her. He’ll blink a few times and be convinced he’s seeing things until he sees her smile. Then, he’ll close the distance between them, pull her into his arms and she’ll know she’s truly safe at last.

But none of that happens.

Admittedly, he does look different but if anything, he favors Ned Stark more than ever. It makes her heart thud dully. He’s dressed in Northern furs and cloak wearing a beard. His eyes roam the hall. She detects a subtle wariness in them.

He’s startingly handsome, she decides. Her cousin Jon is very handsome. Why is that so strange? And why does it cause an unexpected and simultaneous tightening and an unfurling within her?

She must look different as well. She’s no longer a girl with stars in her eyes. She keeps her true feelings closely guarded these days and plays the role she must depending upon the company.

She’s a maiden flowered, a woman fit to be wedded and bedded. She was wedded once upon a time but she remains mercifully un-bedded for now.

She also has dark brown hair, not the auburn he’d remember.

He doesn’t remember her at all as it turns out.

When her name is spoken by the knight making introductions, she sees Jon’s head raise momentarily but then his eyes seem to slide over her before he’s back to speaking of his purpose in coming. Dead men walking. The Others being real. An army of the dead seeking their way into the lands south of the Wall with an evil aim. It sounds so fantastical and not at all like the sort of story she likes.

She’s hurt that he didn’t recognize her. But more than that, she’s hurt he didn’t give her a second glance. She’s more than hurt. She’s offended. Oddly enough, it’s not about them being long, lost family to each other. There’s a different feel to it. Alayne Stone is reputed to be a great beauty. Why didn’t he look at her longer or with more interest like most men do?

For a fortnight, she nurses her disappointment and uncalled for resentment. She’s kept mostly out of sight by the machinations of Baelish although they have caught sight of each other a few times. Actually, she’s noticed Jon looking her way more than once when he’s seated at the head table and she’s tucked down nearer the salt. It pleases her that she’s drawn his eye in one sense at least.

But they’ve not been close enough to speak and neither of them is ever alone when they’re in the same room.

No longer able to tolerate these circumstances, she’s decided upon a bolder course tonight.

Jon didn’t recognize her initially but who could blame him? He’s very preoccupied by this army of the dead business and he’s not been close enough to have a good look at her since then. She must have a moment alone with him and then he’ll see.

Balancing the tray of hot soup in one arm, she knocks upon the door of his chambers, hoping he will be alone.

She hears him beckon her to enter. He’s hunched over a table that’s covered with maps and such when she does but he turns to see who it is.

“Lady Alayne,” he says, bowing his head.

She dips into a curtsy, graceful despite her laden arms. She wants to speak but can’t find her voice.

He seems very puzzled by her appearance. And, in his eyes, there’s something. Not recognition though. It’s respectful but she sees it. He’s looking at her as a man looks at a beautiful woman. And why does that please her so?

“Is that for me?” he asks, noticing the bowl.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“I did not call for anything.”

“It’s cold tonight and I thought you might…” She’s fumbling. Why is she not telling him who she is?

“Ah. I don’t believe we’ve had a chance to speak to one another yet, have we?”

“No, Your Grace. I’ve wanted to speak with you but…”

_Why can I not say what I wanted to say?_

_Because I want him to recognize me on his own…or I want something else entirely._

Her cheeks flush at the thought. He must notice. He chuckles and the deep, raspy sound of it nearly makes her quiver where she stands. It’s so wicked but delightful, too.

“You don’t have to call me that, not all the time at least. I’m not overly fond of it. I was nothing but a bastard until not so long ago.”

“And Lord Commander of the Nights Watch. I wouldn’t call that nothing.”

“Well, yes.”

He grimaces and she wishes she’d bit her tongue. Could he have really been murdered and brought back like the whispers she’s heard? She wants to know. She wants to know so many things. She also _wants_ things from him she never expected. What’s gotten into her?

“Bastards can rise high in the Watch,” he murmurs mostly to himself.

“Well, girls can’t join the Watch but I wouldn’t call myself nothing, bastard though I am.”

He shakes his head, his momentary private reflections dismissed. “You mistake me, my lady. I didn’t mean to insult you. You’re a beautiful and charming young lady from all I’ve seen and I’m just…”

“You’re what?” she asks eagerly when he fails to finish. Too eagerly perhaps.

His eyes narrow as he looks at her. Her heart starts to pound. He’s really looking at her now. He’s sure to notice her eyes or something.

His mouth starts to work and she can barely comprehend his words because she’s longing to throw herself into his arms…and maybe kiss his neck.

“Have we ever met before, my lady?”

“No, Your Grace.” What is wrong with her?! Why is she lying?! _Tell him!_

But all those years of caution, all the lies are so ingrained and there’s this new layer of confusion over what she feels when she looks at him now. What is this?

"Oh, well, you may leave the soup there.” He turns back to his maps and takes a seat. She’s been dismissed and she finds herself growing irritated. No, more than irritated. She’s furious.

Frustrated, she places the tray down more roughly than intended and he looks up at her sharply. She’d like to shout at him. She wants to scream ‘It’s me! I’m Sansa, you stupid!’ but all those courtesies are deeply ingrained as well.

“Jon, I must confess I did come here tonight with a purpose…”

A smirk appears and there’s a touch of something dangerous in his eyes. “From Your Grace to Jon already, is it? I’ve been warned of Lord Baelish and his tactics but his own daughter?” He tries to look disgusted. He doesn’t quite manage it.

“Are you suggesting…”

“Tell me, my lady, is that soup, the soup which I did not ask for, meant to warm me tonight or are you?”

Her mouth falls open in shock. She can’t believe Jon would say such a thing to her. She can’t believe she’s actually willing to consider…

“Warm you?” she repeats, trying to figure out how to fix this terrible misunderstanding. _Would it be so terrible though?_

“Yes, it is awfully cold in here. I could use a bowl of hot soup or perhaps a willing wench to warm me.”

He pats his thigh meaningfully. Her breath hitches when she walks over to obey as if she’s in a trance.

But something warns her she’s being toyed with. He’s leery of Littlefinger as he should be. He has no intentions of bedding his host’s bastard daughter though the way he licks his lips suggests part of him would certainly like to. This is a little game of sorts he’s playing, she realizes. He’s testing her, maybe thinking she’ll run away crying or make a fool of herself in some other manner. She’s familiar with games.

“You’re right. It is awfully cold,” she says, low and sultry, when she sits in his lap.

His bravado slips quite suddenly. His lips part and his eyes widen as she strokes his beard, allowing her fingernails to tease the flesh underneath. Then, she takes one of his hands in hers and draws it up to her face, allowing him to stroke the smoothness of her own cheek. He’s panting before he manages to draw it away.

“It is, uh…cold,” he gulps.

Maybe he had only meant to send her scurrying off but there’s a little war going on inside his head now. She’s not fled and he’s trying to decide if he truly wants her to. He’s woefully unskilled at these games. He needs a lesson. She could almost laugh that she’ll be the one to give it to him.

And so, she does laugh the next moment when she rises quickly and tells him, “I suppose I shall have to keep you warm then, Your Grace,” just before she pours the hot soup in his lap.

But her laughter dies when he looks up in complete astonishment from his soaked breeches, tilts his head to the side and breathes a name. “Sansa?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [I missed you...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21056222) by [vivilove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove)


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